Imaginary Is Just A Word
by bsc9999
Summary: Excerpt: "Bloo was just my imaginary friend. Imaginary. Doesn’t the word explain it all?" Mac is fourteen. He hasn't seen Bloo in years, and he wonders about his old imaginary friend. And as a teenager, he wonders how he could have believed. One-shot.


**Author's Note: I'll bet you guys never thought I'd publish a Foster's fic, did you? You thought I would stay with the Kids Next Door fics forever? Well, you were wrong. So here is my first Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends fanfiction. Enjoy.**

**Oh, yeah, and before I forget, the first part is told in Mac's point of view. The next, afterward, is third person, but through Bloo's eyes. **

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I look at the picture on the top of my dresser. It's me, and it's Bloo.

…Bloo. I haven't visited Bloo in a long time. I haven't visited him since I turned eleven, and I'm fourteen now. Life goes on; I can't be going to visit an _imaginary friend _all the time. I have homework, sports, _responsibilities_.

I take my hand and slam the picture onto the dresser, facedown. Bloo was just my imaginary friend. _Imaginary_. Doesn't the word explain it all? Bloo was just a little blue blob I made up…right? I mean, I was only three years old, and I believed that kind of stuff. I'm older now, and I know that imaginary friends aren't real.

But how does that explain everything that happened in the old Victorian home? With Wilt, Coco, Eduardo, Bloo, Mr. Herriman, Frankie, Madame Foster herself…did I make them up, too? Really, normal grown people such as Frankie and Madam Foster wouldn't really believe in imaginary friends, of all things.

…Then I get to wondering…did Bloo ever get adopted again? How is he doing now? Is he okay?

I sit down firmly on my bed and force myself to think logically. Bloo isn't real, Foster's is a nuthouse, and there is no such thing as an adoption agency for imaginary friends. Really, it's such a silly thing…

No. Bloo is real, I know. At least, in my own mind, all of them are real. Wilt, Eduardo, Coco…all of them. But…no, they aren't, are they?

Am I turning into a nutcase, too? A fourteen-year-old—well, a normal one, at least—didn't believe in these types of things. Why am I so different?

I don't know, but I want to know. Imaginary friends—are they really there? When I walk down the streets, do I see them anymore, walking along with the little kids?

The truth is, I don't. And really…I don't want to. Life goes on, I know that, but is Bloo something I really want to give up?

Yes. I know he is. And I don't believe anymore; I can't believe anymore. If I tried, I'll just stop believing altogether.

I take another look at my dresser. The picture is still facedown. I walk over and lift it up.

I can no longer see Bloo smiling at me.

I go down on my knees, cradling the picture to my chest, and I cry. I cry, and I cry, and I cry.

But nothing seems to help.

I really have stopped believing.

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_Mac…_

The sudden thought of Mac racked Bloo's being. It had been almost four years since he had last come. Four years! Where was he? Where was Mac?

Throughout the years, the others had been kind, keeping Bloo from being adopted, whisking him out of sight of every child that came to the door.

But was it all for nothing? Had Mac really abandoned him?

Bloo looked out the window of his room in the old Victorian home. He had a paddleball in one hand, and was waving it around. "One, one, one, one…"

But he was really thinking about Mac. How Mac had abandoned him, how Mac had left him to be adopted by another child…

…Another child. Would Bloo really be adopted off? Bloo had overheard Mr. Herriman talking about it. Would he really have to go to some other kid?

If he did, he hoped it wasn't to that brat who kept calling him Tiffany.

But then again, he hoped the family he would be adopted to had a puppy…

No. Mac was his best friend. _Mac_. Only Mac. Mac thought him up, and Mac would be his only owner. Bloo only wanted one owner, and that was Mac.

But Mac wasn't coming back. He hadn't, hadn't ever…it had been four years. Four years was a long time.

Bloo knew. Mac was never coming back.

He stopped waving around his toy and sat on the hard ground. Mac wasn't coming back, was he? How old was he now? Fourteen? Almost fifteen. A teenager.

He was a teenage boy.

A jerky teenage boy.

He probably didn't believe anymore.

Bloo laid back on the ground, face-up, looking at the ceiling. They earned money to pay for that roof. Hard-earned cash. They worked together to gain that cash. Bloo and Mac.

Well, yes, the others, too, but Mac was there.

Mac, Mac, Mac, Mac. I never get to see Mac. Sometimes, I wish to see him again—just once. But I know I never will, because I bet he doesn't even care anymore.

Too bad. I miss him.

I miss Mac a lot.

I wish I could see him again, but that's not going to happen.

I have made up my mind.

Mac is a jerky teenager and I hate him.

But I still…love Mac…I love Mac with everything I've still got. But he probably doesn't like me anymore.

But who cares? He's gone, and he's never coming back. I'm going to get adopted by a nice kid who loves me and will never give me up. I'm over it. I'm done. I'm all good. Yeah, I'm cool. I'm cool, right? Nothing to it…

No. Because I know I'm wrong. I'll always miss Mac, and I'll always be waiting for him.

Because he's my best buddy in the whole wide world.

The world. That's a big place.

We're best buddies, though I'll never see him again…

I miss him.

I miss you, Mac. I miss you.

Goodbye, Mac.

It's over.


End file.
